


Between the Binding

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Persona 3
Genre: Butch/Femme, Community: no_true_pair, Crossover, F/F, Organized Crime, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Winner gets to break, correct?" Mitsuru says, stepping back from the table and taking down a cue from the wall. "After you, then."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Binding

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic read by Rhea available here: http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/between-binding

The balls crack and roll across the felt and Drace smirks, too pleased to keep it to herself. Her head's spinning from the drinks the boys have been buying -- hoping to break her winning streak, she's sure -- but her hands are still steady enough that she's just sunk the last ball and cleaned Vossler out completely. What she does or doesn't have under her shirt and trousers has nothing to do with how well she plays pool, and she's happy to pocket the paychecks of anyone who hasn't quite figured that out yet.

She might be running out of takers, though. "Come on," she says, looking around at the last few guys still hanging out in the back room. "Nobody's up for one last round to put the table to bed?"

"I'm not stupid," Asch says, pointedly not watching Vossler glare at him. "I've got better things to do."

"Like helping Tifa close up, I hope," Miss Mitsuru says, and Drace starts. She hadn't even heard the boss come in. The gin and tonic must be getting to her worse than she thought. "You boys go help her send the drunks home. I'll stay here and," her lips curl into an absolutely wicked little smile, "put the table to bed."

Vossler looks sorry to go -- it has to be the hair, that too-rich red, that he's weak to -- but Asch punches him in the arm and he turns to follow the others out.

Just as well. Mitsuru's leaning over the table to rack up the balls for the next game, and Drace thinks she's going to be distracted enough without an audience.

"Winner gets to break, correct?" Mitsuru says, stepping back from the table and taking down a cue from the wall. "After you, then."

Drace nods. "Right," she says. Mitsuru looks damn good over the table, sure, but that's no reason to forget what she's here for. If a pretty girl showing off could make Drace lose her train of thought that fast, she wouldn't have lasted long in Kirijo's organization.

She places the cue ball and lines up her shot. One less drink, she thinks. She should have had -- but she didn't. She takes the shot, and it's not her best break of the evening but it'll do. None of the balls sink, though the six is thinking about it, hovering right by the lip of the side pocket.

"Don't think you have to go easy on me," Mitsuru says, pacing around the table to drop the six with one easy shot, and then sink the two on the next. Her fingers splay across the table, fine and elegant, her nails bright lacquer red. "I might not get to spend as much time on it as I'd like, but I still play a decent game."

"I'll keep that in mind," Drace says. When her turn comes up, she manages to sink the nine all right, but then she looks up and Mitsuru's watching her like the boys out front watch Tifa pour drinks, not even trying to hide the admiration, and she scratches on her next shot.

Mitsuru smiles, and goes for the ten next, coming around the table so Drace has to step back out of her way and then leaning far enough over the table that her skirt rides up almost indecently. Drace tries not to look, tries to watch Mitsuru play instead, but her eyes stray despite herself. She can see a band of lace peeking under the hem of Mitsuru's skirt, hugging the curve of her thigh.

Drace swallows hard. It's hot in here.

She doesn't even see how the next shot goes, just hears Mitsuru's laugh, sees her shake her head. "Not as much in practice as I might like, after all."

"I don't believe that for a second," Drace says. "Look at the trouble you've left me." The way the cue ball's sitting now, she has about one precarious angle she could take to get it away from the corner without sinking one of Mitsuru's balls or maybe even the eight.

Still, one shot is better than nothing, so Drace lines up and tries to talk her hands into holding steady. She can do this. She's spent all night playing better than this. Her stick smacks the cue ball straight on, pushes it out of trouble so it nudges the five over toward the corner pocket -- but the eight's moving, too, rolling across the felt almost casually and wobbling right at the lip of the side pocket for a long, breath-held minute before it tips, and drops with a thunk.

"Damn," Drace says, and smiles wryly. "I guess it's good the guys didn't stay to watch my luck run out."

"Maybe I should have been betting with you the way they were," Mitsuru says. She sets her stick down on the table and leans against its edge, her weight braced on her hands.

"Making bets with the boss always leads to trouble, doesn't it?" Drace says. Mitsuru's bare arms look so pale, compared with the midnight blue silk of her dress.

She shrugs casually, so one elegant curl of her hair falls forward. "Even if you're not betting cash?"

Especially then, and Drace knows it, and with the gin still warm in her limbs she doesn't care. "You want to claim a prize for your win?" she says.

"Come here," Mitsuru says, and when Drace goes -- the second she's in arm's reach -- she reaches out, grabs Drace by her tie and drags her close enough to feel the sleek softness of the curves under that silk. "You like this, don't you?"

That's a lot of questions -- 'this' could mean other women, could mean getting close to Mitsuru herself, could mean getting pushed around -- but the only answer Drace can come up with is, "Yes," and Mitsuru looks pleased at that, so Drace leans in for the kiss that comes next.

Mitsuru's lips taste like brandy, the real stuff they have to import in careful smuggled shipments from the continent, and under Drace's hand her waist has just a little too much curve to be fashionably boyish. She reaches up and snarls her hands in Drace's short hair, and kisses like a gangster, hard, proving something. It's not the liquor making Drace feel this week in the knees.

She slides one hand up, daring, and cups Mitsuru's breast against her palm -- softer here, full curves that yield just right at Drace's touch. She can't believe they're doing this. The guys could come back -- it's not likely, maybe, but they _could_. But Mitsuru's teeth are sharp against her bottom lip and she might not even care, right now, about giving them a free show.

"You know what you're doing," Mitsuru says against her mouth, husky, low, and it might be a question.

Drace nods. She was fourteen and in reform school the first time she talked another girl out of her bloomers.

"Good," Mitsuru says. She pulls down with the hand still snarled in Drace's hair, and Drace whimpers a little as Mitsuru brings her to her knees. Mitsuru's other hand drags up her skirt and slip together, past the tops of her stockings, her skin creamy pale against the black lace of her stocking-tops and garters.

Drace slides her hands up Mitsuru's legs, the whispering smoothness of silk and the stocking-seams under her fingertips. Mitsuru's hips arch toward her to make it easier when Drace catches the waistband of Mitsuru's panties to ease them down. The curls between Mitsuru's thighs are just as rich and dizzying red as the hair spilling in loose ringlets over her shoulders, darkened with wetness right at the crease down their center. Drace's mouth waters.

She leans in close, rubs her cheek against the lace of Mitsuru's stockings and the fine, soft skin just above them -- so smooth, so delicate. Drace kisses that tender flesh, breathes deeply so she can smell the wet salt of Mitsuru's cunt -- and then bites, sucking hard. Skin this pale must bruise easily, and she can't help wanting to leave a souvenir.

Mitsuru curses, possibly in French, and pulls on Drace's hair. "Now," she says. "Do it."

"Whatever you say, boss," Drace says. She presses Mitsuru's thighs further apart, so she can see pink in the middle of that deep red, and leans in.

And Mitsuru tastes good, clean and musky and almost sweet, the folds of her cunt swollen and lush against Drace's lips and tongue. She leans back, bracing her weight on the table, and hooks one leg over Drace's shoulder. The heel of her shoe presses into Drace's back. Stay there, the gesture says, and Drace's clit aches in sympathetic want. She closes her lips carefully around Mitsuru's clit and sucks, teasing at it with the tip of her tongue, and Mitsuru whimpers, moans, her thighs trembling like it's almost more than she can stand. If she wanted Drace to back off, though, she'd make it obvious, and the hand clenched in Drace's hair is holding her still, not pulling her away.

So Drace doesn't go anywhere -- doesn't even unbutton her pants to shove a hand down into her shorts, tempting as it is, because she needs to pay attention to do this right. She stays right where she is, licking ad sucking, and she wonders how Mitsuru would react if Drace pushed two fingers up her cunt and stroked her from inside. Next time. If there's a next time, she'll do it, feel that velvety wet heat around her fingers. God, she wants a next time, wants to get Mitsuru out of her silk dress, see what she looks like when she's stripped and wanting. Drace moans against the slickness of Mitsuru's cunt, and Mitsuru answers the sound, low, pleading. The noise is muffled -- like she doesn't want to attract attention -- but raw with hunger, with need. Her thighs tremble and Drace feels herself tensing in sympathy and then the shudders of climax wrack her hard.

She pushes Drace back when she's had enough, and Drace looks up, licking her lips. Mitsuru's cheeks are flushed, her hair disheveled, her eyes glassy with pleasure. "Happy with your prize?" Drace asks.

Mitsuru smiles. "Very," she says. She slides down off the table, and Drace steadies her with a hand on her thigh. "Bring the car around," she says. "The keys are in my office. I want you to take me home."

The way she says it, and the way her gaze lingers on Drace's mouth, make need pull tighter in Drace's gut. Next time might be sooner than she thought.


End file.
